


Monsters

by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Creature Fic, Infidelity, M/M, Multi, Romance, Werewolf Lore, Werewolves, infidelity outside of Harry/Draco, werewolf lore that I've made up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:37:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/heyitsamorette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsters come in many different forms, and Harry realizes he hasn’t finished dealing with all the various monsters that exist in the wizarding world. Draco has his own demons to work out, as well as a past that he can’t seem to leave behind. Is the biggest monster a common enemy, or does it exist within themselves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> World Notes: Lupin and Tonks did not die. Takes place post-Hogwarts. Not Epilogue Compliant.
> 
> This story is a WIP that will feature werewolves and pack dynamics, other magical creatures, multiple eventual pairings, and A/B/O. Please keep in mind that pairings jump around based on plot development and therefore there is infidelity in this story (though not between Harry/Draco).
> 
> I apologize for the late updates, thank you to everyone who has been following along. I will make every attempt to update weekly from hereon out! I am having a lot of fun writing this! Thank you to anyone who reads and comments. Feel free to leave any feedback you like.
> 
> Contact me on tumblr: [@heyitsamorette](https://heyitsamorette.tumblr.com/)

Harry had almost gotten used to these quiet nights at the Burrow. Mr Weasley drowsed by the fire with a Muggle textbook tipped in his lap and a half-finished cup of tea by his side. Mrs Weasley thumped away pleasantly in the kitchen, because she could never sit still in the evenings and insisted on tidying. Ron and Hermione perched together on the sofa, she with her head in a book, ignoring Ron’s constant chatter about inane, normal things. It was so nice to feel normal again and to have Ron chatting away at him. Harry blinked sleepy eyes and watched Ron gesticulate excitedly. 

“...dove into a Wronski Feint, and Hooch told her off because it’s not allowed at Hogwarts -- which is a load of bollocks if you ask me -- but luckily the scout saw it and approached Ginny afterward to ask her to audition for the team!”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry said, smiling. “I knew she would be spotted soon enough.”

“Can you imagine? Ginny on the Hollyhead Harpies? We’d get to go to all the matches for free!”

Hermione snorted. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t be invited,” Ron told her. “Wouldn’t understand the game anyway.”

Hermione lifted her head from her book. “Excuse me, Ron, but who came to all your matches at Hogwarts? Who sat there during practices, and _who_ , pray, came with you to the World Cup? Was that me, or was that my twin sister?”

“Merlin, I hope you don’t have a twin sister. I don’t think I could handle two of you.”

Why did he have to tease her like that when he knew what was coming? It was almost as if Ron enjoyed it. Harry almost chuckled but he wanted to avoid the sharp glare that Hermione now directed at Ron, so he clenched his lips and decided to just sit back and watch the show. 

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to retort, a deafening scream cut through the previously amiable silence. Everyone’s head turned toward the stairs and Mr Weasley jumped awake in his chair, his book slipping off his lap and falling with a thud to the floor. Mrs Weasley ran into the room asking, “What in god’s name was that?”

Hurried feet stomped down the stairs, and then Fleur appeared, her face even paler than usual and her eyes large. She was muttering in French so fast it was impossible to understand her… or it would be even if Harry spoke French. 

Mrs Weasley reached out to her, pulling Fleur away from the steps and leading her over to the sofa. “My goodness, Fleur, what happened?” Ron and Hermione made room as Fleur’s shaky body joined them.

“I… I cannot stay any longer,” Fleur said. 

Mrs Weasley hesitated and then took a step back, staring at Fleur with a mixture of pity and fear. She then locked eyes with Mr Weasley, whose dark circles seemed suddenly darker and his wrinkled brow more creased. 

“I am finished with heem!” Fleur screamed. “‘E will kill me.” And then she let her face drop to her palms and sobbed. 

“Did he hurt you?” Mrs Weasley asked quietly. It was like she already expected the answer to be yes. 

Fleur’s sobbing grew soft, and then it was only sniffles. She wiped her eyes with her fingers, and her nose with the back of her hand. 

Harry realized he was half standing in his seat. He let go of the arms of the chair and flexed his fingers, settling back down, but his gaze traveled to the stairs. “I’ll go up and check on him.”

“I’ll come with you,” Ron offered immediately, and Harry nodded. 

The upstairs hallway was quiet… Too quiet. From their work with werewolves, Harry knew that was a bad sign. When werewolves hear a human approach, they go deathly still and lie in wait. Even though Bill wasn’t a full-on werewolf, the full moon still made him crazy. They had been worried about something like this happening tonight. 

They were prepared. 

Besides, he and Ron had experience now. They knew what they were doing. Chasing down Greyback’s old pack was no simple task, and if Harry had learned anything on the job, it was to give a werewolf nowhere to hide. Surround him on all sides, making sure he had nowhere to run. When a werewolf was panicked and confused, he lashed out savagely, and contrary to popular opinion, that was the easiest time to take him down.

Harry paused by the door to Bill and Fleur’s bedroom and looked back at Ron, who nodded. Harry held up three fingers to count down, then lowered one… two… three!

He kicked the door open and they both charged into the room at once and yelled, _“LUMOS!”_

There were no more dark corners for Bill to hide, and he leapt at them on all fours like a wild beast. Harry was not used to seeing his twisted and enraged face, made even more animalistic by the deep scars, and he found himself momentarily caught off guard. 

It was Ron’s voice that dominated the room, and in an instant Bill was restrained by thick lengths of rope. As much as he struggled, thrashing his arms and legs, he couldn’t pull free of them. 

Harry scanned Bill’s handsome face but there was no trace of his previous self there; he was not Bill at all. Harry felt a heaviness in his chest as he watched the almost unrecognizable wriggling heap of a man on the floor in front of him.

Ron’s face was blank. “We have to Firecall Remus,” he said, before neatly side-stepping Harry and leaving the room. 

Harry knew Ron well enough to give him some space. He waited a moment, averting his gaze from Bill because looking at him was making his stomach queasy, and then followed behind Ron.

 

*

 

Draco tore the parchment into thirty little pieces and threw them into the fire, where they sizzled and steamed until they were just black dust mingling with the rest of the ash. 

If he got another one of these letters he’d go mad. 

He feared he was already going a bit mad as it were, all alone in this townhouse, where the floors squeaked even though no one else lived with him and the windows were drafty no matter how many charms he placed. Everytime he heard a noise, he thought Greyback had found his way inside and was finally coming for him. It was enough to give anyone a jumpy heart. No wonder Draco barely slept anymore. 

_Don’t run from me, pretty._

He could hear that grizzly voice as if it were yesterday. 

And then the note. Echoing Greyback’s words from those days when he had prowled the Manor: _“I know where you live, pretty. I know where you sleep.”_

I know where you sleep. 

The thought of climbing back into his bed that night made Draco sick. 

After another sleepless night pacing his sitting room, kipping restlessly on the sofa and jerking awake to nightmares, Draco had had enough. Normally he would never do this, would rather face another Hippogriff than show his face at the Ministry, but he decided he was just too tired to give a fuck anymore. He didn’t even bother to put on a fresh shirt or comb his hair, just tossed on his thick, black robes, the ones with the hood -- it was raining, as it had been for days -- buckled his tall boots, and stepped out. 

 

“Mr Robards is busy today,” said the lady outside his door. 

“I’ll wait.”

“I doubt he will see anyone today,” she insisted. 

“I said it’s fine,” he said while plopping into a chair outside the office door. It was either wait here for Robards, who would likely never see him, or wait at home for Greyback, who would most likely show up any day to claim him. 

Besides, it was peaceful here. It was … busy. There were other people here walking the corridors and chatting amiably. Aurors, no less. Despite the twitchy secretary who was obviously unnerved by his presence, it was not a bad place to be at all. The chair was comfortable enough, and he could lean his head back against the wall and close his eyes… And breathe easy… And…

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Oh, bugger it, he had just been about to doze off. 

Draco opened his eyes to the familiar voice. Sure enough, there he was, looking all Potter-ish and windswept. 

Windswept? Bloody hell, he was tired. 

“What does it look like?” Draco crossed his arms and crossed his ankle over his knee. “I’m waiting for Robards. That’s his name on the door, isn’t it?” And with that, he closed his eyes again. 

“When the door’s closed, he’s usually away or not seeing anyone.”

The secretary chirped up. “Like I said!”

Draco ignored both of them. 

After a silent moment, Potter spoke to the secretary. “Will you give this to him when he’s back?” There was a ruffling sound of parchment, and Draco pictured Potter handing her something. “Tell him it’s for the Greyback case.”

Draco opened his eyes, his heart jumping. “What did you just say?” he demanded. 

Potter and the secretary both turned to him with bewildered looks. The lady looked like she dearly wished he would get out of there at once. Potter, on the other hand, slowly looked Draco up and down, as if he was just seeing him for the first time. 

And to be fair, this was the first time Potter had seen him in a while, Draco figured. He had seen Potter nearly every day in the last year, as did the entirety of Wizarding Britain, what with Potter’s face splattered constantly in the _Prophet._ Draco had intimate knowledge of that face, of those brooding eyes and the taut line of Potter’s lips. He felt like he had for a long time.

Which infuriated him. 

Why should Potter’s face be as familiar to him as his own mum’s? Why did Potter always -- _always_ \-- claim that special spot?

“Well?” Draco’s irritation made his neck hot under his wool coat. “I’m here about Greyback.” 

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?” He walked closer to Draco and lowered his voice. “Do you know something about his whereabouts? If you do, Malfoy, you need to tell us.”

Draco balked. “I’m not trying to keep anything from the Ministry, Potter!” Two fucking minutes in Potter’s presence, and he already wanted to scream in frustration and clob Potter across the face. “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wanted to hide something. Are you being stupid on purpose?”

Potter frowned. “ _Do_ you know something?”

“I…” Draco’s shoulders lost their tension. “I don’t know.” He swallowed. Whether he liked it or not, it was becoming clear he was going be getting into this with Potter, of all people. “I want to talk to Robards about it.”

“I’m working on the case, you can talk to me.”

“I know, I… I read in the paper you were one of those looking for him.” 

Draco suddenly noticed Potter was in an Auror’s uniform. Which made sense seeing as Potter was, in fact, an Auror. It suited him. Even with this strange new exterior, he was still so genuinely the Potter that Draco remembered, just instead of Gryffindor robes hanging open, his Auror jacket was, and his shirt was ever unbuttoned. 

Windswept.

Draco realized Potter always looked like he had just dismounted a broom.

He stood from his seat. Potter didn’t even take a step back. Something about that was both infuriating and infinitely appealing. 

“Do you have an office?” Draco asked. “It’s a long story.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. At the mention of a story, his eyes lit with something like curiosity. “Is it the kind of story that requires a drink?”

Sweeter words were never spoken. “It absolutely does.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I can still smell you,” said the deep voice in Draco’s ear. “No matter how much of that expensive cologne you douse yourself with, you can't cover up your natural scent. It calls to me...”

Draco flinched away from where Greyback’s yellow nails crept to his shoulder. “I have to go,” Draco snapped. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood. Since the meeting was over and the Dark Lord had retreated to the rooms he had chosen to occupy for the duration of his stay at the Manor, and they were all free to breathe again.

But Greyback seemed to always be breathing him in.

“Your scent is stronger and more delicious than any potion you can concoct.”

Draco turned to him and glared into his eyes. “Get away from me.”

Which only made Greyback smile ferally. Draco shivered. 

“Would you like to know what you smell like?” Greyback stepped closer, crowding him against the table. His chest was inches from Draco's nose. 

Draco had to lean away. “Do you know what you smell like?” he gritted through clenched teeth. His heart was beating, but he wasn’t going to let that show. As if he was going to let a halfling intimidate him. 

Still, he was relieved when his father stomped over with his wand out, having finally noticed the predicament his son was in. 

"Step away from him, Greyback," his father snarled. "Or have you forgotten your place here?"

Greyback blinked at his father, and then a slow chuckle started low in his chest and built into a triumphant sort of laugh that chilled Draco's veins. "Don't you mean above you, Lucius, in the Dark Lord's favour?" He laughed heartily again.

Draco didn't want to look at his father. Or at his mother, whom he see from the corner of his vision, hovering worryingly. 

"Don't worry." Greyback's imposing body moved away. "When this is all over, the Dark Lord said I could have him."

Draco did look at his father then, shock and panic urging him, and wished he hadn't. The ashen color of his father's cheeks made him even older than before.

Greyback went to him, but his father's eyes were transfixed to a spot on the floor. 

"And there's nothing you can do about it," Greyback snarled quietly in his father's ear as he passed. 

Every night was the worst night of his life, when every creek in the floorboards was Greyback coming to get him. Draco's heart could only rest with the constant reminder that tonight was not the night -- the Dark Lord promised him when it was over. 

When it was over. 

It was the only way he could sleep one more night. 

One evening, Draco had just bathed before coming down to dinner. He found Greyback staring in his direction the moment he turned the corner into the dining room. 

He'd been able to smell him coming. 

Draco knew his cologne trick didn't work, but he should have at least dried off completely before coming down. His damp hair must absolutely wreak his essence, at least to the sensitive nose of a werewolf. 

He felt Greyback's hunger, as if permeating through his stares, as he rounded the table to sit between his parents. 

He was being dissected. 

Almost physically invaded. 

He wanted to cross his legs. Shrink under the table. Hide from that pointed gaze. 

"Stop drooling on the tabletop," Aunt Bellatrix told the werewolf as she inspected her long fingernails. 

Merlin, they probably all knew Greyback wanted him. They knew, they just didn't care. Did he really think Bellatrix gave a rat's arse about what happened to him? She could pretend she did for his mother's sake, but Draco knew: that woman had a soul as black as death. 

She looked at him. 

Draco almost jumped. He tried to cloud his head like she had taught him. But it was too late anyways, she was already smiling. 

He didn't want to think about what that beast would do to him. 

_Once this is over._

But he found out soon enough. Because Greyback told him. 

"I have a wand!" Draco warned, not that his shaky voice was at all scary. He could barely get a good grip on the blasted thing as it was, his palms were so sweaty. So it stayed in his pocket as Greyback cornered him in a dark alcove. He had been on his way to his room. 

"Already, you body screams for what it wants. I can sense things, you know. Things you underdeveloped humans simply cannot. I can smell the wantonness on you."

"You're crazy," Draco breathed, his voice whistley. He was too preoccupied watching the nail that raked over his cheek, and standing as still as a possible. 

"My kind have a special word for what you are. Do you know what that is?"

Draco closed his eyes. Breathed through his nose. 

"It's someone who needs to be owned. And I want to own you."

Greyback's fingers now gripped his neck. He could crush it in a moment. 

"You will belong to me. _Pet."_

"Never," Draco managed to grind out. 

"Go ahead and fight it. It will be all the sweeter when I win."

*

Harry realized he had started sweating around the neck, and his one hand was balled into a fist so tight that his nails dug painfully into his skin.

"And now there are the letters," Malfoy continued. "I don't know..." He swigged back the rest of his drink, finishing it off. "Sometimes I wonder if he just likes to torture me. If he never really means to take me at all, just to scare me out of my wits until I expire from a heart attack. It might all just be a bloody game to him, like playing with his food."

Malfoy went still, like he had just realized what he had said. 

"I won't let him make a meal of you," Harry said, and he found he meant it. Very much. The whole story made him sick. 

As much as Malfoy was a twat, Harry knew intimately what it was like living in fear. Merlin knew he was practically an expert in it; to be scared for your life every moment, even in sleep. It was enough of a punishment to soften Harry’s heart toward Malfoy, if only the slightest bit. 

Besides, he wanted to catch Greyback as much as Malfoy did, and perhaps his visit could prove fortuitous after all. For both of them. 

Malfoy scowled at Harry’s declaration. “How many times are you going to save me, Potter?”

Despite the sour look on Malfoy’s face that said he deeply resented the fact, Harry couldn’t help but grin. And maybe he got some perverse sort of pleasure from rubbing it in just a bit. “As many times as it takes to keep you alive.”

This did cause a pull on Malfoy’s lips until they weren’t quite smiling, but neither scowling anymore. 

“How often does he send these letters?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Malfoy looked at his empty glass and played with the rim, frowning. “Sometimes once a week, sometimes once every three. It’s inconsistent.”

“Did you bring them?” Harry was eager to see them, and he sat up on the bar stool. He wanted to see Greyback’s handwriting, to feel the weight of the parchment. 

Malfoy looked him in the eyes. “I burn them.”

“Oh.” Harry slumped down again. “Well that’s not very helpful, is it, Malfoy?”

Malfoy frowned. His dark circles looked purple in the lamplight of the pub. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No?” Harry tried hard not to roll his eyes. “I’ve never dealt with a lunatic stalking me and trying to murder me? Of course, you’re right, I’ve could never understand what you’re going through.”

“Well, all right,” Malfoy grumbled, signaling for refill of his drink. 

Harry took a sip of his own, a pale ale. He hadn’t intended on getting pissed in the middle of the afternoon, but apparently Malfoy had other ideas. Harry was mildly shocked that Malfoy had just so readily admitted Harry was right, which meant he must be pretty damn exhausted. 

“That whiskey will put you right to sleep,” Harry said as the bartender poured another two fingers. 

It moved thickly as Malfoy slogged it around the glass, holding it under his nose. “Here’s hoping,” he said, and tipped it back. He put it down half empty. “So are the Aurors going to help me or not, Potter?” 

“I told you I would help you.”

Malfoy nodded. “Then I’ll send the next letter to the department. Maybe you can pick up a trace off it.”

“You can bring it directly to me,” Harry directed, “I’m heading the case.” 

Malfoy reached into his pocket and pulled out some sickles, throwing them on the counter. “You hero.” With a sly smirk, he threw back the rest of his drink. 

Musky cologne wafted over him as Malfoy got up from his stool. 

 

Malfoy’s story haunted Harry’s mind for the rest of the day. It was basically pointless trying to read through field reports of his colleagues out hunting Greyback’s pack, because Harry kept finding himself daydreaming mid sentence. 

Greyback’s hands touching Malfoy’s shoulders… It made Harry’s stomach roil. He wanted Greyback to stay far away from him, to leave Malfoy alone forever. It was something he knew he had to take care of. 

There was meat cooking. The smell permeated outside the cottage, through an open window where the breeze took a corner of the drapes. Harry walked up the small path to the front door, his heavy boots crunching on shells. 

Tonks ushered him in with a quick wave of a singed kitchen towel, signaling for him to be quiet. She was careful closing the door. 

"Is he asleep?" Harry guessed, keeping his voice low. 

"Yes, finally. I hope the cooking doesn't wake him, but I can't help that he has no tiredness." Her brow was sweaty. 

Harry grinned. "Having a spot of trouble in the kitchen?" he asked, eyeing the towel that looked like it had battled the stove and lost. 

She narrowed her eyes at him and attempted to swot him with it. "Don't make fun of me. I was trained to hunt Dark Wizards, not to cook."

"What can I do?" he offered, going straight into the kitchen. He stopped when he saw Remus sitting at the small circular table tucked into the corner by the sink. 

Remus looked up, his eyes dark underneath. Like Malfoy's, Harry immediately thought, remembering their earlier conversation in the pub. 

So Remus hadn't been sleeping. Not that Harry had never seen him sleep-deprived -- during the war, they all were. But his forehead was especially crease-y this evening, and his mouth especially frown-y. 

"Hello," Harry offered as he pulled out the other seat. 

Tonks put her hand on her hip. "And here I thought you were going to help me. Or are you just going to have a drink?"

"He'll have a drink," Remus grunted, nodding for Harry to remain seated. 

Tonks moved around grabbing the glass and whiskey, preparing an identical drink to Remus's. Remus didn't say anything until she had set it down. 

"We have a bit of an issue," he said quietly. 

Harry gripped his glass but didn't lift it. He was listening. 

"Bill is suffering. Really suffering."

Harry swallowed. That wasn't exactly a huge revelation, it was clear to anyone with eyes that Bill was struggling with his scratches. They wouldn't heal. "It's terrible." He felt the need to take a sip then, because whiskey burned his lips and tongue and that struck him as somehow necessary. 

"He's a Partial." 

Harry sat in rapt attention as Remus spoke. 

"Maybe you thought there were only humans, like you, and Halflings, like me. Part human and part... Something else."

Harry nodded. 

"There is also an in-between, called a Partial. We use that to describe the very rare state where a human gets trapped between being fully human or being a Halfling. If Bill had been scratched lightly, his cuts would have healed. If he had been bitten and lived, he would have Turned. But his scratches are deep... Too deep to heal." His eyes were red around the edges, stressed. "And he hasn't been bitten."

"He's stuck," Harry said. 

"Yes." 

Tonks dropped a pan on the floor, and the clanking startled Harry nearly out of his seat. 

She gave them a wide, guilty grin, mouthing her apologies. 

"Harry."

Harry turned his head back to Lupin, who seemed to not have moved even at the sudden disruption. He was still looking Harry gravely in the eye. 

"He's going to die."


	3. Chapter 3

The cottage seemed darker all the sudden. No one spoke and no one breathed. “He’s going to die,” Remus had said, and the world was different. 

“No.” The word left Harry’s mouth before his brain could catch up. 

“Partials never live longer than a year, Harry,” Remus said. 

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing; Bill couldn’t just die like this. All the old anger he used to feel during the war came rushing back, clutching his chest in a tight grip. Voldemort had taken so much from them all and even now that he was gone, even after Harry thought the damage was finally done, the effects were still wreaking havoc in his life. And what about the Weasley’s? Molly had already lost one son to the war, and now she would have to lose another one because of it. All because Fenrir Greyback had gotten his claws on Bill and had turned him into a Partial. 

“There must be something we can do,” Harry insisted. Maybe if he kept saying it and kept believing it, it would be true. More seemingly-impossible things have happened before. 

“Well, there is one thing,” Remus said, “but it’s not an ideal solution. In fact, it’s almost not a solution at all.”

“It has to be better than death!” 

Remus looked at him gravely. “You think?”

“What is it?” Harry was eager to find out what this one thing was -- this only thing -- that could save Bill’s life. Remus did not look happy about it. His shoulders were tense and his lips were thin, and he might have broken the whiskey glass between his grip if he were any more on edge. 

“The bite,” Remus said so low that Harry wondered if he’d heard him right. 

Of course. Why hadn’t Harry thought of it himself? It was so obvious, he was so thick for not having thought of it before. 

“You can give him the bite,” he said.

Remus nodded. Anyone could see that he didn’t want to do it. 

“I would rather be a werewolf than be dead,” Harry said. “And I’m sure Bill would agree.”

Remus sighed heavily and slumped down in his chair. He ran a hand roughly over his creased forehead, smoothing back his grey-streaked hair. 

Tonks was watching them from the oven, where she seemed to have become a statue. The roast was ready, had been for a few minutes -- Harry realized a magical cooking timer was emitting a faint buzzing from the countertop. 

“Remus, you have to do it,” Harry urged. “At least ask Bill what he wants. If he wants to be bitten -- which I am positive he will -- then you aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“I promised myself I would never turn another human,” Remus said faintly. 

“This isn’t the same as just biting anyone! This is Bill!” Harry didn’t know why he was yelling. He didn’t mean to yell at Remus, it was just so frustrating that Remus was even having second thoughts about this. “You would let Bill die just for some… some... principle?”

Remus’ eyes were sharp, though the rest of his face looked drawn and tired. “You don’t understand.” 

“I understand that you’re not going to save his life,” Harry said. 

“But it won’t be saved, he’ll be a werewolf. No one knows what that’s like!”

Suddenly Harry felt a wave of guilt. It was true, he didn’t know what it was like. In fact the only thing he had ever seen was how much Remus had suffered. How the whole wizarding world shunned him and he had to fight the monthly urges to kill, to maim human flesh. Every month was a struggle. Every day a reminder that he did not belong and that he was wanted nowhere. How much had Remus unwillingly sacrificed because of his condition? 

Harry sighed. “You don’t want him to live a lifetime of pain.”

“Or rejection. Or regret. All because of me.”

“I don’t think Molly or Arthur will see it that way,” Harry offered. “I think his family would rather see him alive as a werewolf, than dead as a wizard.”

“I know… Which is why I have to do it, of course.”

Harry sighed an internal sigh of relief. He wanted to laugh. “Oh thank Merlin, because I was thinking I’d have to Imperius you into biting him.”

Remus quirked his lips, but it didn’t turn into a full smile. 

“He won’t blame you,” Harry said. 

“Maybe not the first month, or the first year… But what about the fifth? Or the tenth?”

“Let’s go ask him.”

The waves crashed outside Shell Cottage, pulling away from the rocky shore and then splashing back against it. It was peaceful, Harry thought as they climbed the stairs to the room where Bill slept. No wonder this was the only place that calmed Bill after his episodes. 

They brought him here after the first time because they hadn’t known where else to bring him. They needed someplace secluded, quiet, and still. Like Remus had needed the Shrieking Shack.

The Burrow was always full of people, so Bill couldn’t stay there. What if he escaped his room and attacked one of the family? He would never be able to live with himself after if he did that. Harry offered Grimmauld Place, but it wasn’t restful there, where the residue of Dark Magic still hung in the air. The solution was Shell Cottage. 

Remus had stayed with Bill throughout the night, in his wolf form. 

Then it kept happening. 

Before he knew it, Remus was living at Shell Cottage permanently. Tonks would stay with him most nights, and she’d bring Teddy as well, and they were a perfectly happy little family for the good part of the month. When the full moon arrived, the two of them would have a sleepover at Andromeda’s, which Teddy was never opposed to and therefore he was never the wiser, and someone would bring Bill over and leave him in Remus’ care. Bill slept for two days after his episodes, and then he awoke his normal self again. 

It had worked for a year. 

_Partials never live longer than a year, Harry._

In that year, Harry and Ron and the rest of their team had caught eight of Greyback’s pack. There were four left, including Greyback himself. 

Anger roiled in him, making Harry’s stomach hurt. He would make Greyback pay for what he was putting Bill through. 

The small room was dark, the curtains drawn, and the lump on the bed shifted. Remus went over to the window and pulled the curtains wide open, and the moonlight illuminated the bed. Bill was tossing around under a thin blanket. A heavier blanket was crumpled in a heap on the floor, where he no doubt threw it off himself in his sleep. When he became restless like this, it meant he was close to waking. 

Remus gently touched his shoulder and shook it. “Bill,” he said firmly but quietly. The waves still rumbled outside, and the stars twinkled. “Wake up now.” 

Bill’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, seeing Harry, then seeing Remus. A smile graced his lips as he looked up into Remus’ face. 

Remus pulled his hand away. 

The claw marks on Bill’s face were stitched up with black thread, his skin swelling and angry underneath the cross-stitch. He would never heal, Harry thought. Not unless he was Turned. The slashes across his cheekbone and jaw would close with neither magic nor time. 

“Remus,” Bill said in a croaky voice, and reached out to brush Remus’ hip. 

Remus stepped away just before Bill’s fingers could touch him. If Harry hadn’t known any better, he’d say Bill deflated. 

“Harry’s come to see how you are,” Remus said. 

Bill turned to Harry then like he had just noticed him standing there next to Remus. “Oh, hello, Harry. How are you?”

“I should be asking you that,” Harry said gently. “I’m not the one confined to bed.”

With a shrug, Bill moved into a sitting position against the simple wooden headboard. “It’s not that bad. Remus would have you think otherwise, but he seems to make every situation dire.” He shot Remus a shy smile. 

_He’s going to die_.

Remus’ words assaulted Harry’s brain. 

Harry looked at Remus, only to be hushed with a stiff shake of the head. “Didn’t you tell him?” Harry demanded, ignoring Remus’ urge to be quiet. 

“Of course he did,” Bill said, as casual as a breeze. “And he won’t listen when I tell him I want it.”

They all knew what _it_ was, and it hung over them like a dark cloud; Remus was the lightning, ready to strike. He glared at Bill, and Harry found himself fuming. 

“You see,” he said. “You’re worrying about nothing, because he wants to be bitten. I told you he’d rather be bitten than die. You can’t deny him that, it’s his choice. You can’t be so selfish --”

“Selfish?” Remus snapped. “I’m trying to save him from a life of suffering. Why won’t anyone understand that?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Bill said, his fingertips finding the top of Remus’ hand, but Remus pulled away again. 

Harry was starting to get impatient with the whole situation and, frankly, had no qualms about showing it. To him, there was no question: Bill must be bitten, and if Remus wasn’t going to do it then Harry had to find another werewolf who would. He wouldn’t let Bill die because of Remus’ nobler-than-thou feelings; there had already been enough death in the last few years to last them all a lifetime. 

“This is ridiculous,” Harry said, failing to keep his voice at an indoor-level. Not that he was particularly trying.

“I agree,” Bill said, nodding. 

Harry pointed at him. “He doesn’t want to die,” he yelled at Remus. “I get what you’re trying to do, but I think it’s more selfish to sit there stubbornly when he is choosing to take the bite. He’s choosing that life!”

Remus rubbed his forehead with a worried sigh. “You don’t know the half of it, Harry.”

“I’m out of here.” If he had to stand around listening to any more of this… this… _illogical bullshit,_ he was going to explode. 

“Where are you going?” Remus asked. 

“To tell Molly that you’re letting her oldest son die,” Harry snapped as he stomped out of the bedroom, not bothering to keep the door from slamming shut. 

The baby began crying and Harry immediately felt guilty. His yelling and stomping probably woke Teddy up, and he could hear Tonks shushing and cooing while she tried to calm him. Harry decided that instead of having to talk to them -- because Merlin knew he was no longer in the mood to be civil company-- he Disapparated from the top of the stairs.

He Apparated straight into Hermione’s living room. 

She was sitting at the dining table with Ron, holding a forkful of food halfway to her open mouth. They were both looking up at him with twin surprised expressions. Ron’s Auror robes were draped over the back of his chair. 

“Oh, you’re here, too,” Harry said upon seeing Ron.

“Don’t sound so happy, mate.”

Harry didn’t mean to sound so disappointed, it’s just that he wasn’t prepared to tell Ron that another one of his brothers was dying… not yet. Not right now when he only just found out himself. 

He forced a smile, for Ron’s sake. “I just thought Hermione would be free to help me out with something,” he said. 

“I’ll be free in second, just let me finish eating.”

“This is sort of important,” Harry said, but sat down anyways. “I need you to tell me everything you know about werewolves.”

“Want me to put you a plate of pasta?” she asked, clearly ignoring him. Well, this wasn’t the first time he’d rushed in demanding her superior knowledge, usually for work. She wasn’t even concerned by this. “It’s the first time I tried making Bolognaise sauce and it’s actually pretty good!”

Harry caught Ron’s wide eyes and minute shake of the head. “Er, no thanks, Hermione, I’m full.” He hadn’t eaten since the beer with Malfoy, but his stomach was in no shape to keep down food. And he just realized that Malfoy had completely left his mind since he arrived at Shell Cottage. That was another thing he’d wanted to tell Hermione. And Ron, for that matter. 

Sitting at the table while they finished eating was akin to torture, what with the knowledge he was keeping inside gnarling at him. 

“Will you stop tapping your foot?” Hermione said at one point. 

“Will you eat faster?” 

Hermione set her fork down resolutely. “ _What_ is it? You have my attention now. What is it you want to know about werewolves, Harry?”

“I… I don’t know, just everything.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Well, let me see. I assume you remember the basics we learned in third year. And you’ve been chasing werewolves for the better part of this year... so actually, Harry, I don’t really know where you want me to start. You see, I can’t read minds.”

“I went to Shell Cottage tonight and Remus said something about being a werewolf… something like, I didn’t know the half of it.”

“Well, of course you don’t, you’re not a werewolf.”

Harry licked his lips. “But the way he said it was so…” He couldn’t think of the word.

“Mysterious,” Ron finished for him.

“Exactly!”

Hermione sighed. “You two share the same brain sometimes.”

“It’s no wonder we get along so well,” Ron said with a grin.

This time a genuine smile escaped Harry’s lips. He really couldn’t let Ron know his brother was dying. The Weasley’s had been holding out hope for his recuperation, almost maniacally optimistic about it. They probably just couldn’t handle the idea of the alternative…

He snuck a glance at Hermione. She probably knew. She knew everything, so she was probably just waiting --

No, she wouldn’t. If Hermione knew Bill was dying, she would do something to save him, she wouldn’t just sit quietly and let it happen.

“How much do you know about Partials?” Harry asked her. 

She tilted her head, thinking. “Oh, not much. I know that Bill is a Partial right now, of course, as is Lavender. She was scratched by Greyback as well. You know, they probably have a bond of some sort, being turned by the same werewolf. I bet if we got them together, they would connection some sort of base level.”

Two tidal waves of emotion roared through Harry at the same time, equal measures of horrified panic and excited realization. It must have shown on his face, because Hermione had stopped talking and was staring at him like he had grown a second head. 

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “First off, where the fuck is Lavender? We need to save her. Second, it was Greyback who bit Remus, wasn’t it? That must have been why Bill was acting that way.”

“How was Bill acting?” Hermione asked just as Ron said, “Save her from what? She’s fine in St Mungo’s.”

“What?” Hermione turned on him. 

Ron bit his lip. “She’s... in St Mungo’s.” 

Oh fuck, what the bloody hell was Ron doing with that sort of information? Harry hadn’t known he’d been keeping tabs on Lavender Brown; why hadn’t Ron told him? Regardless, he had better tread carefully with this one. Hermione didn’t look mad, but she did look profoundly… _curious._

“She was injured in the battle, you know that,” he told Hermione. “Loads of people were. A few of them are still in St Mungo’s. The Death Eaters knew some nasty curses that the Healers still haven’t been able to identify, so they can’t fix them. It’s bloody horrific going in there, seeing all that.”

Oh no, he was rambling. That meant he was covering up something. Oh, god damn it, Ron.

“Why were you visiting her?” Hermione asked, her tone a little too light and airy to be believably casual. 

“I was visiting everyone, not just her. Like I said, lots of our… our friends, they got injured.”

“Our friends? Who else? I haven’t heard of anyone I know staying in St Mungo’s all year, why haven’t you told me about them?”

“Hermione, I have a very busy job, we’ve been chasing Greyback all year. You know I have been extremely stressed out, so I’m sorry if I haven’t related every minute detail of every day to you.”

“Don’t you even try to flip this around and make _me_ feel guilty,” Hermione said, her cool facade cracking. “Bollocks, there aren’t any old friends of ours in St Mungo’s. There’s only Lavender Brown and that’s who you went to see!”

“Well, so what?” Ron said. “I watched Bill all summer after the war and I remembered Lavender got clawed as well, and I couldn’t help it, Hermione. I just felt so bad for her. I knew how much she was suffering, I saw Bill going through it all.”

Hermione sighed and put her head in her heads. When she lifted it, she was frowning. “I feel bad for her, too,” she said, “but why didn’t you just tell me you were seeing her? How long have you been going?” She was elevating, Harry could tell. She was starting to build the situation into a mountain as only a girl could; a mountain of accusations and lies and infidelity. “How many times have you canceled on me and gone to see her instead?”

Harry banged his fist on table. “Stop, this doesn’t matter!” 

They both looked at him. 

“None of this matters! This isn’t bloody important.” 

Hermione’s face was screwing up angrily and her mouth was opening, and Harry just couldn’t stand to get side tracked by this stupid, stupid fight about Ron and Lavender Brown.

“Bill’s dying!” He wished it hadn’t come out, but they bloody well forced it out of him. Actually, it was a relief. 

There, it was out. Now Ron knew. Now they could talk about it. Now they could all put their heads together and fix it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Here is Chapter 4, wherein Harry continues to ponder the mysterious workings of werewolves and Draco is slowly becoming more intertwined in his life. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Hermione owned a lot of books, everyone knew that. But Harry didn’t think he ever realized just how many until she started rifling through her “storage” which was basically a bottomless trunk she had enchanted to never run out of space. Except it did run out of space at a thousand books, but she had a spare trunk she could bewitch as “second storage” in case this one filled up, she told them, so no worries.

Harry wasn’t so much worried as astounded. Still, he was happy she had so many werewolf books on hand.

“You shouldn’t be so surprised,” she said, picking up a particularly thick book called _Were-Culture Through the Ages_. “You have come to me with so many questions regarding your case, I decided to stock up.”

Ron looked at him behind her back and raised his eyebrows.

“And you’ve been an amazing help,” Harry said, sucking up shamelessly and ignoring Ron’s dirty look. “We couldn’t have caught some of his pack members without your tips. I only wish we were any closer to finding Greyback now than we were when we started this case.”

“He’s been particularly slippery,” Ron agreed.

“Well maybe there’s something to what Remus said,” Hermione pondered, leafing through the pages of the book so rapidly Harry thought they might tear. “Ah, here we go! These are the things werewolves never share with wizards… Not that wizards have been historically interested in cultures of creatures they deem below them,” she added, pursing her lips in obvious disapproval. She began to read:

“Within a pack, the most sacred kind of werewolf community even closer than blood-relations, members are split into three categories: the Alpha, the Beta, and the Omega. The leader of the pack is the Alpha, the strongest among them and the natural authority. He or she fights for the top position with nothing more than brute strength. Betas might try to usurp his power by staging a coup or rebellion, usually in the form of a savage physical altercation, and sometimes new Alphas form as a result. The defeated Alpha will fall down to the rank of Beta or Omega depending on the circumstances of their defeat.”

She looked up at them. “Surely you must have known all of this already, this is quite elementary werewolf culture.”

“Er… No,” Ron said.

Hermione sighed, her nostrils flaring, and muttered under her breath something that sounded like, _Wizards…_.

“I’ll bet Fenrir is the Alpha of his pack,” Harry said.

He couldn’t help but find the whole thing fascinating. It was like a new part of the wizarding world he never even knew existed, like no matter how long he was a part of it, there would always be new magical things to discover and thrill him.

“What’s an Omega, then?” he asked. He knew enough of the Greek alphabet to suspect it was the lowest rank, but he was curious as to the subtleties of the role.

Hermione looked down, tracing her finger down the paragraph where she had left off and finding her place again.

“An Omega is the rank below the Beta, and can serve various roles. Sometimes the Omegas, regarded as the weakest and therefore the most expendable members of the pack, are sent to do the dirtiest and most lethal of tasks.”

Hermione raised her head and huffed dramatically. “Barbaric monsters….”

“Hermione!” Ron said in mock surprise. “Are you actually speaking ill of a wee magical creature? My heart stops at the shock!” he said sarcastically with a hand on his chest.

She shot him a mirthless smile and continued to read:

“Alternately, if the Alpha is particularly fond of one of them or is in need of…” she faltered, clearing her throat, “... satiating a sexual need, he chooses among the Omegas to use for his purposes.” She tisked. “Honestly…”

“Is this what Remus was talking about when he said there were things about being a werewolf I had no idea about?” Harry asked, frowning at the book in Hermione’s lap like it was the source for all his current troubles.

“Maybe,” Hermione said. “I wonder how this relates to Bill.”

“Bill’s not a werewolf, though,” Ron reminded them quickly. There was a thread of urgency in his voice that made Harry feel extremely bad for his friend, and for his whole family having to watch Bill go through this and wonder what would happen to him.

“But this might be why Remus doesn’t want to bite him and turn him into one,” Harry said as gently as he could, though Hermione was the one who took the prize for soft and soothing explanations when someone was in distress. “I wonder what rank Remus has, if any. Maybe he has no rank if he’s not in a pack? He’s an unattached werewolf?”

“I’ve never heard him talk about being in a pack,” Hermione said, “so I doubt he’s in one. He did try to infiltrate the underground werewolves during the war,” she pointed out, reminding Harry of the work Remus had been doing for the Order, “but I am not sure how that went. He never really talked about it, did he?”

Harry’s stomach clenched oddly as a thought occurred to him. Perhaps to get on the pack’s good side as a simple outsider, Remus had had to start on the bottom rung… as an Omega. Harry didn’t think he would like to be an Omega, being the bitch of the pack basically, and he didn’t think Remus would have liked that either. Had he had to sexually please the Alpha?

The thought alone made Harry want to be sick, made worse when he recalled how painfully miserable Remus had looked all through that whole year. He didn’t want to think of Remus that way, and he pushed the nauseating images from his mind.

“Maybe all new werewolves start out as Omegas,” he thought out loud, “and he doesn’t want Bill to turn into one.”

He thought about the way Bill had leaned over to touch Remus, how he had looked up at Remus, his face bright with something that Harry was now pretty sure had looked like total adoration.

If Bill was going to be Turned, Harry would bet anything that he was going to be Omega to Remus’s Alpha, or at least he’d want to be.

He wanted Hermione to read them the rest of the book as quickly as possible, but it was very thick and that would take ages. It didn’t help that his mind was already going in a million different directions, and another part of him didn’t want to sit around reading this book anymore when he could be re-looking at his case notes with new eyes.

The first thing he wanted to do tomorrow morning was pay a visit to Azkaban and interrogate the members of Fenrir’s pack they _had_ caught and ask him about the ranks. Had he and Ron and the rest of their Auror team spent months painstakingly chasing the pack only to have caught and locked up a bunch of useless Omegas? If that was the case, they were nowhere closer to finding the core members or Fenrir than they were a year ago; he doubted Fenrir gave a fuck about the Omegas and he probably laughed at the Ministry as he scampered away in a forest somewhere, safely hidden while his least important members, his most dispensable, were in custody. He could bite and turn anyone into a new Omega, what did he need the ones they’d caught for? He wasn’t coming back for them.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Hermione asked. “You look distressed.”

Harry sighed. “I’m just starting to think all our work might have been for nothing.”

“Don’t say that!” Ron gave him a smile that looked a bit forced, but still nice. “We’ve made loads of progress. And we’ve got some new leads now, haven’t we?” he added encouragingly. “The new evidence is saying that Greyback’s in Romania now. Somewhere…”

Wait a minute. The talk of new leads nudged his memory, and the thought struck Harry like a bright chord of hope after this long and gloomy day. “Draco’s letters!”

“Wha’s that?” Ron asked, eyebrows knitted together.

“Draco -- Malfoy came to me about some letters he thinks -- well, he knows -- are from Greyback.”

Then he proceeded to tell them about the strange and frankly unnerving story Malfoy had related to him at the pub.

 

 

*

 

 

Just like he knew it would, the letter eventually came. Like all the others, it hadn’t been delivered by owl or by any other traceable means. In fact, this was the primary reason Draco suspected that Greyback himself was nearby… Or maybe it was just one of his cronies delivering them for him. But how else would the letter appear one day as if out of thin air, tucked neatly into the seam where front door met doorframe?

Draco was just returning home for the evening and spotted it as he took out his key and prepared to fit them into the lock. He stopped, his limbs feeling like they were made of lead.

Swallowing, he looked around to make sure there were no Muggles passing by, and he waited, heart thumping, for a solitary figure to click his heels down the street and out of hearing range. Then he looked straight into the eyes of the carved golden snake that was his door knocker.

“What did you see?” he demanded in a whisper.

The snake only blinked at him and stuck out his tongue.

What a useless piece of hardware; it never told him anything. Sometimes Draco thought the thing was against him, and then he’d push the paranoid thought from his mind, desperate not to go mad as well as die of fear. His father had probably charmed it to reveal no pertinent information to anyone but himself while he had lived here, and now the snake just stuck out its tongue at Draco mockingly.

Stupid magical piece of crap. He was almost tempted into coveting those Muggle devices, which were surely not only more reliable but also obedient… What were they called… video surveillance? But no, surely he hadn’t stooped so low yet as to be considering Muggle devices.

But maybe he was just that desperate.

He looked at the parchment again and the same stab of panic went through him that always accompanied the presence of Greyback’s letters. He gingerly pinched it and slid it free, holding it between two gloved fingers as though it were contaminated. And knowing how filthy that beastly creature was, Draco wouldn’t have been surprised if the parchment had soaked up some sort of vile werewolf disease. He scowled at the thing, especially when he turned it over and recognized the scratchy scrawl.

Yes, this was from Greyback.

He turned around immediately and Disapparated.

When he finally got through the department store entrance, through the Atrium, and down the lift to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he breathed a sigh of relief. People were still milling about. So maybe Potter was also still here, or at least Robards.

Potter had said to come to him, but Draco would be perfectly happy with anyone who was working this case at the moment. Although he reasoned he was looking for Potter because he had already explained the whole thing to him and it would be annoying to have to explain it all over again to someone else. Plus the things Greyback usually wrote to him were humiliatingly degrading, and even the prospect of showing Potter the letter was painful enough. But showing more people, random people in the department, was not a tempting idea.

Where was Potter anyway? Where had he said his office was? Oh yes, he hadn’t said, he’d just whisked Draco off to the pub. He kept his eyes pealed for Potter anyway in case he spotted him strolling down the corridor like some of the few people he passed. That messy black head and that bright red untidy uniform…

If his heart jumped a bit when he finally spotted him, it was only because Draco was surprised because he had been losing hope in finding him.

“There you are, Potter,” he said, walking right up to him.

Potter was walking toward him too. His face had that usual expression it had; hard and determined, like he was ready for anything, and a frown because Draco suspected Potter always wore a frown when he saw him in particular. At least he always used to, for as long as Draco could remember. In fact, he wondered if he’d ever seen Potter without a frown.

“I’ve received another letter,” he said in a low voice when they stood in front of each other.

Potter’s eyebrows shot up. “Let me see it,” he demanded, holding his hand out.

“All right, relax, I brought it here to show you, didn’t I?” he drawled. Potter really did need to chill if he was even more uptight than Draco was these days. He pulled the folded up parchment from his breast pocket and handed it over.

Potter looked at it and then back up at Draco. “What’s it say?”

“I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Don’t you want to know --”

“No.” Draco cut him off curtly.

Potter seemed to understand, or at least he didn’t roll his eyes or anything. “Let’s do this in my office,” he said. “I was heading there now.” He led Draco down the hallway.

Potter’s office was dark and he only bothered to light one oil lamp on his desk so that it cast an eery glow over the notes scattered across the surface. In the dark corner was a small sofa and a chair, for taking guests, Draco presumed. The walls were lined with shelves which contained precious little books, but Draco noticed there was a Snitch and a Sneakoscope lying haphazardly among them, along with other random artifacts and objects of Potter’s. One of the walls was covered entirely in parchment -- maps, handwritten notes, moving pictures of wanted criminals…

Potter didn’t bother to go around his desk and sit down, but leaned against the front of it, crossing his legs casually at the ankle. He unfolded the letter.

“God, this is sick,” he said, his eyes moving left to right across the note.

“I told you,” Draco said, not with malice but in what felt like defeat. “They’re all like that.”

Potter’s usually full lips turned into a very thin line. When he looked up at Draco, his eyes blazed even in the dull light. “He’s a right bastard.”

Draco snorted. He didn’t have to be told that. “Can you get a trace off it or not?”

Potter took his wand out of his pocket, shook the parchment so it straightened out, and ran the tip over it in a sweeping motion. The tip of his wand glowed pink for a second and then dulled again. “Nothing right now… But I want to take it to Robards anyways.”

Draco swallowed, heat prickling his neck. “It’s… it’s rather a sensitive letter…”

“So what? I have to show it to him.”

Draco felt a nerve twitch in his temple. “All I’m saying, Potter, is that it’s a bit embarrassing to have Robards see what that freak’s written to me.”

Potter exhaled in a huff. “Are you more concerned about being embarrassed, _Malfoy,_ or about saving your life?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t take it,” he said, trying not to shout but fully aware that the volume of his voice was rapidly getting away from him. “I just thought you’d be the one --”

“Robards might know what to do with it that I don’t,” Potter cut him off. “I have to show it to him, there’s not debating the matter.”

“All right! Fucking hell.” Draco was hot around the collar now for sure, and it wasn’t because of embarrassment. No, he wanted to kick Potter somewhere it would hurt. The fucking insufferable git. “Take it, goddamit, I don’t want it anyway. If it were up to me I’d burn it. Have been doing with the lot of them.”

Potter narrowed his eyes at him. “Why is he so interested in you?” he asked then, more pensive than Draco had expected to see him.

“I don’t know how the brain of psychotic murderers work, Potter. Maybe he has a hankering for blonds. Who knows. All I know is he’s unfortunately fixated on lucky me.” He suddenly felt exhausted. He really needed to be able to sleep. “I have to go,” he croaked. Though he didn’t fancy the idea of going home at all.

“You look tired,” Potter said, as if to agree that Draco needed to go to bed.

“If only I could sleep,” he said wistfully, turning around. There was still half a bottle of gin in his kitchen cupboard that he was looking forward to draining.

“Are you really that scared to go home?”

Draco spun back around. “To the place where Greyback knows I live and tells me he watches and leaves those nasty letter? I’m so sorry that I don’t go skipping back happily,” he said bitterly. How dare Potter judge him? He had no idea what it was like for him. Potter got to go back to his safe, comfortable bed every night while Draco was stalked and harassed by a lunatic.

“Why don’t you get a room at the Leaky?”

Draco scoffed. “Like he can’t penetrate the high security at the Leaky Cauldron.” Still, he didn’t want to admit out loud, but the idea did have merit. There were at least other people at the inn, and it was being isolated and completely alone that fed Draco’s fear the most.

“A Muggle hotel?” Potter pondered. “Although the security there wouldn’t be any better… Probably even worse, plus it would pose a secrecy issue if he attacked you in a Muggle-dense location.” Potter was looking at his feet as he bit his lip.

“Well,” Draco said, “while you grapple with things that I’ve already considered but ruled out, I’ll be on my way back to my prison. Hopefully I’ll be pissed soon enough and pass out in the kitchen. Goodbye, Potter.”

“Wait, I have an idea.”

“Yes?”

“Shell Cottage.” Potter didn’t should this new option with glee, but at least his grim expression had lightened. “It’s Bill Weasley’s house, but Remus Lupin and his family also stay there now. You remember Lupin…”

“Yes.” Draco remembered quite well. He was a werewolf. “So what you’re suggesting is that the safest way for me to escape the clutches of a murderous werewolf is to go stay with… another werewolf?” Draco wanted to punch Potter in his stupid face. How had he ever become an Auror? What a bloody idiot.

Potter was frowning again. “Well the thing is, Remus isn’t a __murdering_ _ werewolf, you prejudiced twat. Not all werewolves are murderers, or even dangerous.”

Draco rolled his eyes, not really in possession of the energy to argue the point at the moment and somehow aware that it was a losing battle trying to persuade Potter away from anything he was so passionately convinced about.

“In fact, you’ll probably be safer with him than anywhere else,” Potter continued. “I think you should stay there tonight.”

He said it with such finality that Draco almost acquiesced. Almost.

“I don’t want to stay with Weasleys,” he said.

“That’s idiotic. If you’re still on about being better than the Weasley’s, I almost don’t want to help you.”

Draco sighed, because it was a bit more complicated than that. “They won’t want me there anyway,” he said. And it was true, even Potter had to admit that.

“I don’t care,” he said, stepping in close to Draco, as if Potter thought he’d win the argument by sheer force of proximity. “I want you there, and they’ll understand.” And god, what a force he was…

“Potter…” Draco tried to come up with something scathing, but it was hard when Potter stared at him with all that conviction.

“It’s done,” he said, holding up his hand. “I was going over there tonight anyways to talk to Remus. I’ll come with you and wait while you gather your things.”


End file.
